The Scalpel and the Umbrella
by paper.boat
Summary: "The note read "8. Main entrance". It's 7:50 and she can't play this game. Sure, she wonders what it means but she can smell the Holmes signature all over it. Cryptic notes. Yeah, right. It's the weekend, she's on a break. Sherlock can find someone else to torment tonight." — A few days before Christmas, Molly meets Mycroft. He does love to be dramatic. (hints of Sherlolly, pre-S1)
1. The Scalpel

**I. The Scalpel**

Three, two, one... and, end of her shift! Molly sighs deeply, then puts her head between her arms, moaning. Her desk is loaded with paperwork, files and empty coffee mugs – leaving barely enough space for her to work, or even to sit. It's been a hell of a day, and now she is longing for her flat and a bath. With a lot of bubbles. And then, a cup of tea. Maybe she'll even order some chinese food, and watch a nice movie. A smile stretches her thin lips as gathers her stuff, eager to leave.

The pathologist is not usually so strict about her work hours. Actually, she spends probably way too many hours here; Molly Hooper is not the kind of girl who'd stop before the work is properly done. But not tonight: she truly is exhausted and has been eyeing the countdown for the weekend all day. It might have been different had she had dissections to perform but no, not a single cadaver in two days and weeks of paperwork to catch up.

As she goes to take her clothes in the locker, she notices a little note on the door. " _Meeting at 8, main entrance._ " Frowning, she tosses it aside. Someone must have mistaken her locker for someone else's. Unless it is from Sherlock? Usually, the detective prefers to text though, and he must know she won't be up for any experiment tonight. Besides, leaving little notes behind is not really his style. The thought of the detective brings another smile to Molly's lips, sweeter, and she checks her phone just in case. No text, nothing. Despite the relief that she won't be bothered and that she can have her evening to herself, her smiles slightly fades. Sherlock Holmes doesn't need her tonight. And oh, sometimes, she wishes he would.

The detective and her met only a few months ago, but they're well working together. Those long hours in the morgue, at night, or his short visits during the day, to investigate an on-going case, are their privileged moments. To be honest, she never though they'd get along. He is everything she's not : rude, haughty, arrogant, disdainful. He loves to show-off and to put people back in their places and he prides himself into being a... a what already? Ah, right. A high functioning sociopath. He's a genius, he's handsome as hell and the voice he takes when he talks to her makes her insides _melt_. Of course she had fallen in love. How could she have not?

She knows he manipulates her, too. Oh, nothing mean, but she knows she allows him access to the morgue when she shouldn't, gives him organs although she can't, gives in to anything he asks actually. Because it's _him_ and she can't ever, ever say no.

It's ridiculous right? She's a grown woman, and they haven't even known each other for so long. But she feels him, she loves him. Molly's been fed on fairytales long enough to be sure he's The One to her, and no matter what happens next she will never ever fall this deep for an other man. Yet she is well aware that he can't return her feelings. Not now, not ever. Sherlock Holmes is not a lover, he is no ordinary man. She cannot expect such silly things from him and it's okay. She finds it hard, sometimes, but she accepts it. It is what it is.

But despite his pretense, she thinks he likes her. Not as a friend, he doesn't have _friends_ (he repeats this at least three times a day) but Molly likes to believe that she is the closest thing he has to a friend. She can tell because he talks to her sometimes, when he feels like it, without anything in return. In those moments, stolen from time, he's genuinely nice. Caring, almost, in his own way. He talks a little about his cases or his current researches, about how Anderson really is an idiot and about Greg's cheating wife. They talk about Mrs Hudson and then he offers Molly to come and have tea on Sunday. But then he forgets, and when Molly arrives all excited there's only Mrs Hudson to open the door, embarrassed but good at not showing it. Molly has had tea with Sherlock's landlady-not-his-housekeeper everytime he forgot they had a tea meeting, making this about twice so far. Molly never ever reminds him that. She knows he wouldn't get it. He probably doesn't remember inviting her. In his own words, he deletes from his mind everything that is not important. So, tea with Molly is not that important.

Lost deep in her thoughts, Molly barley notices the note on the elevator doors. "8. Main entrance". It's 7:50 and she can't play this game. Sure, she wonders what it means but she can smell the Holmes signature all over it. Cryptic notes. Yeah, right. It's the weekend, she's on a break. Sherlock can find someone else to torment tonight.

As usual she doesn't go through the main entrance, but walks out on the side door, the one the staff usually use, which leads her directly on the pavement on St Bart's side. It's snowing now, and Molly smiles. Christmas is on it's way and she loves it.

Her beret on her ears, gloves on her hands and a thick scarf around her neck, she starts walking towards the bus stop. London doesn't need one more car to be driven around. Eyes on the pavement, she doesn't notice the third note on a street lamp, "Main entrance !", too busy choosing the song that's going to start her journey back home on her iPod. It's only after a few minutes that she gets this odd feeling. Something is not as it should be. Startled, she stops and looks around. A few more meters until the bus stop. Around her, people are walking just fine, there's traffic, noise, lights. It's all perfectly normal.

"Do you ever do as you're told ?" Molly gasps, startled, and turns around only to meet a woman. Blue eyes, dark hair, and a coat that's worth like six months of Molly's wage. She looks beautiful.

"Wh- what ?"

"Come on, we're in a hurry, Miss Hooper. Would you please get in?" The lady shows her the open door of a black Rolls. No license plate, tinted windows. Molly frowns, takes a step back. She still can run to the bus stop...

"No, you can't run. Don't be silly. Now, get in."

"Who are you? What do you want? I'm only a pathologist here. I could just..."

"No you can't. Now, Miss Hooper, _get in_. Someone is eager to meet you."

Chills go down her spine, and she moves reluctantly. The whole situation looks like a bad espionage movie and how the hell does this woman knows her name? Dreadful scenarios come running through her mind but then, it hits her.

"Is is Sherlock? Does it have anything to do with him? Oh my god is he hurt?" The lady gives her a stern look, but doesn't care to answer.

"Please, Miss Hooper. One last time. _Get_. _In_." Molly sighs, giving up. She knows better than to disobey, God only knows what could happen… She climbs in the car, rather surprised when the lady comes to sit next to her and absorbs herself in her phone. A faint, nervous smile on the lips, Molly tries desperately to see the bright side of the situation, but it's a little difficult right now. Oh, yes, she too has her phone and she probably could text something to Sherlock, or to Greg Lestrade, just in case, but she's not sure what to do. She doesn't even have the faintest idea where they're taking her, she doesn't know who _they_ are or what they want, and of course the woman won't tell her a thing. Millions of questions go through her head while the car joins the London traffic. In the end Molly loses track of the streets, and the longer the journey lasts, the worst she feels. Sick.

Suddenly, the vehicle stops, drawing Molly's attention.

"We're here, Miss Hooper."

"What ?"

The lady doesn't even look up from her phone. "You can get out. See you."

Slowly, hands shaking, Molly exits the car. She expects it to drive away immediately, leaving her alone and frightened in this… place, which is nothing but an abandoned building, but no. The car doesn't move. She doesn't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing, and as she looks around her she finally spots a silhouette standing in the shadows, a few meters in front of her. Struggling to ignore the sound of her own heartbeat ringing in her ears, she approaches carefully.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper."

* * *

 **Hello guys !**

 **Here I am with a new story, which will have three parts. Everything is written, so I'll just have to post the next chapters this week !**

 **I came up with the idea for this fic shortly after writing "Realisation", but I only finished it like yesterday. (I mean, tonight.) At last ! I hope you will like the encounter, I did definitely had fun writing it.**

 **Don't forget, english is not my first language so if you see any mistakes let me know and I will correct them !**

 **Thanks for reading x**


	2. The Umbrella

**II. The Umbrella**

" _Good evening, Miss Hooper._ "

The deep voice makes her shiver, and she can't find anything to say. The fact that she doesn't understand a thing about the whole situation doesn't help. Silence settles like dust, and Molly can almost hear Sherlock's voice screaming in her mind, urging her to _observe._ Yeah well… easier said than done. She can't see anything else but the plainly, painfully obvious: in front of her stands a tall man wearing an expensive suit and holding an umbrella, posing like some… James Bond vilain. In an abandoned warehouse. At night. In december.

"What do you want ?!" she blurts out, finding her voice again, even if she's giving in to panic. She can't fight, she can't run. Her only option left is to talk... unfortunately she's not particularly good at interacting with total strangers. Not mentioning the threatening ones.

"Ah, calm down, Miss Hooper. This… nervousness of you is very irritating. You do seem very afraid, though. »

"Afraid ?" Molly feels a wave of anger overriding her fear when the mockery in the man's voice hits her. Nevertheless, the words get stuck in her throat, again. She's not build for this. What sick game is he playing? Breathing slowly, fighting back the tears, she answers between her teeth, careful not to stutter. "Of course I'm afraid. I just got _kidnapped."_

"Kidnapped?" The man chuckles, a grin finding its way on his lips. "How dreadful. No, no, this is merely an impromptu meeting."

"By the way that's Doctor Hooper to you", she says between her teeth.

"Yes, right... So, _Doctor Hooper_. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

The question takes her aback. "Sorry, what?"

"The two of you seem very close."

"No, I… we… we aren't close. There's no connection, I, ah… I only met him a few months ago."

"And in the meantime, he has chosen you to be _his_ pathologist, to work with him. He trusts you with his funny experiments and makes you breach the law by giving him spare body parts." There's a hint of disgust attached to the three last words. "What's his business with you? Are you planning on becoming his _associate_?"

"No! And how do you know about the body parts?"

"You are very careful, I'll give you that. But not quite enough to be completely unnoticed. So?"

"So what?"

"Don't make me lose my time. What's his business with you? You're clever, determined, ambitious, but you really don't strike me as being his type."

"I don't know, alright?! Who are you anyway? Why do you even care?"

"Let's say I'm an interested party."

"In Sherlock, or in his work?"

He chuckles again, seemingly amused by her defensive tone. "Both."

"Then why don't you go and ask him yourself? Surely if you're _so_ interested in him you must know him well enough."

"How very perceptive of you. Him and I have what you might call a… difficult relationship. And I worry about him."

"Yeah well you're not doing a very good job at it are you? _I_ worry about him and _I_ don't need to kidnap his friends to pretend I care." She didn't know she had it in her, this fire. But at last, it's a relief to bite a little.

"Ooh, are you Sherlock's little _friend_ now? Please don't get your hopes up. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. He only has puppets whom he manipulates."

"Listen, I don't know who the hell you think you are but you are very wrong about Sherlock Holmes. He's not like that, like… you. Heartless." The man arches his eyebrows, and she hopes nothing wrong will happen because she just insulted him. Sort of.

"Isn't he? Or would you like to believe so because you're in love with him?"

Molly can feel her cheeks redden, but instead of stepping back, she rises her chin. Her fire's burning in her now, it's consuming her doubts and turning her initial fear to ashes. "I've seen it. He's a good man. Now _are we done_?"

"Not quite. You see, I am most relieved to see that he has found a nice girl like you to care about him. Will it be the same though when you'll find out he's an addict? A junkie, I might say? Sorry to be the one breaking the news, but he will hurt you, Doctor Hooper. And he will hurt you _bad_. He has broken stronger women than you." The words are poison to her mind but she stays still. A tear or two get caught in her lashes but she doesn't yield. Not yet. She'll burn before that.

"Gosh, what are you? His therapist? His doctor? His _father_? Look, I get it, you're warning me. But I know what I'm doing. I don't need your supervision."

"Alright."

"Alright?" Wait, that's it? All this… drama, for nothing? He might not like to lose his time but neither does she.

"You are free to go, Anthea will take you home. One more thing though. I understand you have Sherlock Holmes' wellbeing… at heart. In his best interest, we should join forces... cooperate."

"Oh really ? How so?"

"You'd be so very loyal to him if you would, from times to times, give me information... tell me what he's up to."

"No."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure yet."

"Don't. Sir, no offense, but I believe that Sherlock is in better care with me than with you."

She lowers her gaze and all the stress from the evening weights down on her. She feels so tired, she just wants to go home and forget everything. The man remains silent, but when she looks up, only for a second, she spots a vague wave of pity in his eyes- one she cannot tolerate.

"I don't know who you are, but I won't play your game. You can find someone else to bully."

After a long, inquisitive look, the man turns around without a word. Molly lets out a heavy sigh, wet trails appearing on her cheeks as her silent tears fall. The fire in her has been extinguished, finally. She's beginning to head back to the car when the deep voice resonates once more.

"Take care, Doctor Hooper."

.

* * *

Next thing she knows, Molly is woken up by the woman- Anthea. Time to escape this madness. Molly exits the car, and she is finally about to enter her flat when she hears Anthea calling her name again.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"My boss wanted you to have this." The black haired woman takes a step forward, handing her a small business card. "If you ever need help… call this number." Molly only looks at it for a few seconds, but before she can ask, Anthea's gone. Molly's alone, in front of her building, in the snow.

It could just have all been a very strange dream.

Before giving in to sleep, Molly finds one last drop of energy to send a quick text.

It's a goddamn well deserved week-end.

.

* * *

 **Part two's over, hope you liked it ! The last part will be here very soon, and I can already tell you the title... "The Belstaff" Guess who is going to make an appearance? ;)**

 **I'm exhausted, but happy. And a ha** **ppy writer is a better writer, don't you think ?**

 **A bientôt x**


	3. The Belstaff

**III. The Belstaff**

It's a loud knock on her door that wakes her up. A brief glance at her alarm clock; it's 9 a.m. and she still feels exhausted. The knocking stops just when Molly clumsily manages to sit down on her bed. Oh, headache. The sunlight peeking through her windows is enough to make her take some paracetamol – she always has some on her bedside table. And a glass of water.

She's trying to remember what the hell happened last evening but a loud sound startles her, and she drops half of the water on her. _That noise_ is her front door opening, then closing not very gracefully. Then, footsteps, a coat that's being hanged, shoes being taken off. Her flat is small enough so she'd know every noise that it would make. Or, rather, that _he_ would make.

Sherlock is probably giving her some time to ready herself because he takes ages to enter her bedroom, yet, Molly doesn't move. Instead, she welcomes him with a slightly annoyed look. "Did you _have_ to pick my lock? Again?"

"You weren't answering."

"I was sleeping."

"You sleep too much on the weekends Molly, that's not good for you."

"Excuse-me?!"

Them bantering is the way they say hello. Unusual, yes, but she's grown used to it. Apparently the great and only consulting detective doesn't really accommodate very well with the "hello-how are you today-did you sleep well" package.

"I got your text last night."

"I'm surprised you didn't come earlier then."

"I was on a case." Of course. "Then I did… stop by. You were fast asleep then."

She can't help but smile when he's like this. Caring, even if he would not show it for the world. But their conversation is reminding her of the dreadful events of the night before.

"So do you… do you know who I met last night?"

"Unfortunately, yes." There's a silence. Molly anxiously waits for him to continue, sitting up straight, back resting against her pillows, while Sherlock sits on the edge of her bed. "I'm sorry Molly. You just had the displeasure to meet my brother."

"Your brother?" God bless she put the glass of water down by now, otherwise she'd be soaked. "Since when do you have a brother?" He looks at her, puzzled. "Wait, no, don't answer that."

"Mycroft is my big brother. He does love to be dramatic. He also _diets_ and he likes to control everything I do." Suddenly Molly feels like she's watching a 15-years old teenager complaining about his brother.

"O…kay? What does he do for a living then?"

"Apart from annoying me you mean? Well according to him, he occupies a _minor position_ in the British government."

"Meaning?"

"He _is_ said government".

Molly nods, confused, not quite knowing what to say. It's a lot to take in, after all. Sherlock's big brother kidnapped her last night, using some... odd espionage methods, threatened her, and offered her money to spy on Sherlock. If that's not drama... But still, there's a question at the back of Molly's head that she won't say it, but it keeps on nagging her. She's not quite ready to hear the answer, because she has the feeling it's true. And also, it's way too early in the morning for this.

"Say it, Molly." Of course. He can be such a prick sometimes, with his deductions. "Out with it. What did my dear brother tell you that is so terrible you won't say it out loud?"

She hesitates for a second, and he doesn't like it. "Molly…"

"He said you were an addict". It's a soft breath, a rush of words. Maybe if she speaks fast, it will make it easier. "He said… he said you would hurt me. _Bad_." She puts the emphasis just like Mycroft had. "And then I think he offered me money to spy on you."

"Ah. How much? Did you take it?"

"What?"

"The money, obviously."

"Sherlock, no!"

"Just asking! You _could_ use a new coffee machine."

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

He's avoiding it, she knows, and he knows that she knows. It only makes it harder.

"Is it true?" She doesn't precise whether she's referring to the addict part, or the hurting part. Or both. He looks at her and in a blink he's not smiling anymore. But she's too tired to absorb his anger when she just woke up ten minutes ago.

"Yes, but you knew that already, didn't you Molly? I've been using since university. Or maybe shortly before. I am… _sometimes_ not using. I'm not using now, since you're wondering. I am no threat to you."

"Why?" He probably reads the disappointment on her face, and hears the sadness in her voice too. It doesn't help, but she cannot hide her emotions. He's destroying himself. His gift, his mind, his health. If she can't help then she ought to know what leads him to engage in this self-destructing behavior.

"It helps me. It's the only thing in the world that keeps me from going mad." His voice is soft as well but his ocean blue eyes tell another story, and the pathologist fears he'd get upset and leave now. That's not what she wants. So Molly just smiles softly, even though the concern doesn't leave her big brown eyes. At least she's trying.

"Okay." It's far from okay, but surely they can work on that later. If he's not using now, maybe it's a good sign. Maybe it's meant to last.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"Funny… your brother said the exact same thing last night."

"For once, he was right. I will hurt you."

"I won't let you." There's a spark of defiance in her eyes. It's only the first stage of their relationship but she's already trusting him. Loving him. More than she should.

"Don't be silly. You're not as strong as you like to believe."

The banter's gone. Now it's all about harsh words and doing what he does best: poking where it hurts. It could tear her apart now, and it should, however sweet Molly's still half asleep, her head is still aching and she would very much like to enjoy the rest of her weekend without being further insulted. It's enough that she measures the kind of troubles that Sherlock Holmes will drag her into. Drugs, the British government, late night meetings in abandoned warehouses and no quiet saturday mornings.

"Possibly. But I'm stronger than you think I am, Sherlock." A smile. "Now, please, either leave or make yourself quiet. I think I could do with one or two more hours of sleep."

He frowns – surely he wasn't expecting her to… dismiss him like that. Usually, that's the other way around. However he doesn't have the chance to reply, since Molly Hooper is already back in her sheets, well wrapped in her mountain of blankets.

From where he is, he can see the snow and the cold winter wind blowing outside, and a bit of frost starting to cover the windows.

Could he be quiet for an hour or two?

 _Possibly_.

Besides, he already took his shoes off.

* * *

 **.**

 **This is the end of this lil story !** **I wrote it pretty quickly, and I'm quite satisfied with it tbh, I hope you liked it too. Now I'll return to my bigger work in progress, "Coffee and Daffodils" but I still have some others ideas that I'd like to write with that kind of pattern (hints of Sherlolly + an other character... Mrs H., Lestrade, Mary... so many possibilities!). I'll let you** **know !**

 **And special thanks to the guest(s?) who left the lovely reviews, it's really heartwarming! Even if it's just a small word it makes my day so much better x**


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